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NOT that I’ve majored in archbishops or anything, but a first meet ‘n’ greet with St. Patrick’s newest CEO brings up one Prince of the Church ago. John Cardinal O’Connor. Easy smile. Loved a joke. Once showed me his bedroom, and the inside of his personal closet. Would invite to his private quarters for an Irish oatmeal and Jewish bagel breakfast. His Eminence remained as accessible as he always told you God was. Those same vibes radiate from Archbishop Timothy Dolan.

The man has it together. Milwaukee, Shmilwaukee, he’s in a New York frame of mind. In town maybe a day and a half, he already knows the players. Reaching over bodies to shake hands with our head fireman Nicholas Scoppetta, he said, “Thanks, commissioner, for your help.” He also sent a handwritten note promising Steinbrenner to be at the stadium tomorrow and saying he’s doing a personal prayer for him.

The installation was called for 1:30. All dressed in a hat and proper Sunday-go-to-meetin’ skirt suit, I was told I’d be picked up 1 p.m. because we were only a few blocks away. Next phone call: “The streets will be cordoned off. To get through the traffic, better say 12:45.” Next phone call: “We’ll never make it if we leave that late. How’s 12:30?” We left close to noon.

The archdiocese had established some sort of command center, so heavy were the requests for seats. Although this was no political rally, masses of pols angled for the best location. Timothy Dolan alone had found his. The cathedral has places for 2,300 although, with extra folding chairs like for a wedding or bar mitzvah, they can stuff in 3,500 people. But this time only a few got a pew with a view. Certain colored tickets meant center aisle. For VIPs, it got you past guys with earpieces.

One of the earliest arrivals, whose advance man awaited him on the sidewalk, was Bloomberg, who may want private lessons from Dolan. Not in church catechism. In church knocking. His Excellency rapped on the door to get into St. Pat’s, and Hizzoner wants that same shtick to open City Hall’s doors a third time. Grinned Mike: “But I don’t think they’ll loan me that hammer.”

A tieless gent in yellowish leather jacket held a leash leading a Lab same color as his jacket. “Plainclothes policeman. Bomb-sniffing dog,” whispered someone. A tall man in navy suit and red tie, introduced as “the archbishop’s bodyguard,” demurred with: “Let’s just say I’m his friend.” Back to back with Pataki‘s old chum Ambassador Charles Gargano came chef Lidia Bastianich. Not just because she’d catered His Holiness the Pope’s dinner here last year, but because the faithful seem faithful to her cooking show, even priests waved with: “Love you on TV.”

Despite everyone proper and respectful as befitted the occasion, I was nearly bounced from my assigned spot. An usher looked at me and said: “No. Can’t sit here. This area’s for former mayors. Like Dinkins.” I showed him my tickets. I got my seat. I never did see Dinkins, so either he didn’t show or they stuck him on 78th Street.

Down front in what on Broadway would be the orchestra’s Double-A seats — Speaker Christine Quinn. After a group photo with two bishops, she cracked: “It’s my next Christmas card.” Next to her, fresh from Ireland, her father. Smack in front of me — top cop Ray Kelly. “Am I a good Catholic?” he said. “I wouldn’t use that word ‘good.’ But I did go to Catholic school.” And former Gov. Hugh Carey, who, after the lengthy processional stretched so long that it seemed the same Knights of Malta had come around twice, sat out the rest while the whole cathedral stood.

Mr. and Mrs. Kenneth Hackett were told to squeeze in alongside me. He, president of Catholic Relief Services, explained: “Timothy Dolan is our CEO. Your New York Post newspaper had him on the front page the other day. We sent that to all our workers around the world.”

Although, to me, this alone should have entitled him to a throne, in came Judith and Rudith, and the Hacketts couldn’t hack it. They were made to surrender their places. Immediately when the Giulianis arrived, a voice from behind our heads rang out: “I’ll vote for you for governor, Rudy.” Across the aisle sat beloved cop Steven McDonald, so badly wounded in 1986 that he remains forever a quadriplegic in a wheelchair. Instantly Rudy got up to shake his hand.

As I left, a nun dropped her scarf. I picked it up. “God bless you,” she said. Seems like He’s blessed the whole city.